


Five Kisses

by startrekto221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Idiots in Love, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3940264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startrekto221B/pseuds/startrekto221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes John Watson five kisses before he realizes that he's in love with Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Kisses

It had begun innocently enough. Sherlock was going off on a tangent about the lady in the park, her slippers, and how he of all people had missed the fact that she was wearing slippers outside, too preoccupied with the fact that she had a leash with no dog and not even considering her mascara. John was only partially listening to him at this point, being truly done with _The Case of the Maybelline_ _Mascara_ as he had decided to call it, and not in the mood—for once—to humor Sherlock’s self-disappointment.

“She was wearing two coats, John!” he continued, slamming his hands on the table in front of the sofa, “Two coats of that mascara, it was running, she was crying, the tears of a murderer, and _slippers_ John, the slippers! How could I not notice! Absolutely pathetic.”

“I didn’t notice,” John said finally, as Sherlock’s tantrums rarely ceased without him giving a response or storming out of the flat, whichever really.

“What’s the big deal in that?” Sherlock asked, “You don’t notice anything.”

“Maybe you were distracted,” John said calmly, turning on his laptop and beginning to type up the case on his blog, “It happens to people.”

“I am not people,” Sherlock grumbled, “Besides, then it’s your fault,”

“How the bloody hell is it my fault?” John snapped, “Of all things.”

“Your face,” Sherlock got up suddenly, coming so close to John that their noses almost bumped, “It’s infuriating me.”

‘I’m sorry?” John said, his voice dropping to a low whisper and a chill going down his spine at Sherlock’s sudden proximity, damn it if that man didn’t always have this affect on him.

“You should be,” Sherlock said, and his voice was deeper and more seductive than John had ever heard it before, but John had little time to think about that, as in that instant Sherlock just brushed his lips against John’s.

He seemed almost a bit surprised at what he had done, and John was too, but hell, if Sherlock could do mad, impulsive things at it was okay, then surely John could do. He brought Sherlock’s face back down to his, practically pulling Sherlock into his lap, the laptop sliding to the side as John kissed him. Because that was normal right? Kissing your male flatmate and letting him sit in your lap? It was unlike kissing a woman, John noted, Sherlock was heavier, his hands larger, obviously no breasts to feel up, but the curls made up for it—which was strange and John would have to think on it later—and of course his mouth was better than any woman’s John had ever touched. He didn’t like to admit it, but he had thought about it before, how Sherlock’s lips were practically made to be kissed.

After a few seconds Sherlock’s phone beeped and he pulled it from his pocket, still sitting on John’s lap and answered it, coughing once beforehand, “Sherlock Holmes.”

“I see,” Sherlock said as he considered John intently, “You’re sure it’s not just a weather thing.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said before he thrust the phone back into his pocket and stood up in a fluid motion, “John, let’s go.”

It was weird, John thought, not talking about it. But it would be weird to talk about it. He found it difficult, these sort of things. So when they came home, post case adrenaline running high, and Sherlock said nothing at all, having almost forgotten, he decided he would let it go too. After all, it’s not like Sherlock would want to make that a regular thing. He was probably just curious. Or bored. Or both. No sense in making it any more than that.

***

The next time John could have sworn it was an accident. After all, why would Sherlock like kissing him anyway?

Sherlock had been pacing around, reciting everything he remembered about the suspect on the tube, and John had pointed out that there was little point in just letting off steam by talking if it wasn’t getting anywhere.

At the word steam, Sherlock had clapped his hands, widened his eyes for a second and exclaimed, “Of course, the murder weapon was an iron!”

He had walked over to John and cupped his face for a quick kiss before dashing off again in the other direction, leaving John and his shorter legs to scramble behind. It happened so quickly that John almost forgot that it happened. Almost. Because the feel of Sherlock’s mouth, like everything else related to Sherlock, was dangerously addictive, and John really needed to quit.

***

John was still dating of course, no sense in not, being as it was he wasn’t getting any younger. His mother really wanted grandchildren, and Harry wasn’t the most domestic type. It made sense.

What didn’t make sense, was sodding Nancy Lasky, who told him he frankly wasn’t bringing anything to the table anymore, he constantly ditched her to go gallivanting with one Sherlock Holmes, and that she was thoroughly finished with him. Said Sherlock Holmes was waiting for him when he got home.

“I know you know what happened, so we’re not talking about it,” John said, pre-empting any comments that would make him want to punch the other man.

“We don’t have to talk,” Sherlock said, walking over and taking John’s coat, brushing the snow off of his shirtsleeve.

“I always do this, every time,” John broke his own rule, “Why do I do this?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock cast the coat on the sofa, pushed John up against the wall and kissed him.

If he had known that when he got home Sherlock Holmes would snog him John might have dumped Nancy Lasky himself. If he had known that he would taste Sherlock’s tongue inside his mouth, feel the slenderness of his waist and kiss him until he could barely breathe he would have run home.

“You’re alright then?” Sherlock asked when he drew away.

“Yeah,” John lied, “I’m perfectly fine.”

They didn’t talk about it this time either.

***

They saw Sebastian Wilkes again. Another problem at the bank. This time Sherlock didn’t introduce him as his friend, having remembered John’s correction from the time before.

“You remember my colleague, John,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, colleague,” Wilkes had smirked just slightly, and John had seen the briefest flash of dejection in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Boyfriend now, actually,” John grabbed Sherlock’s coat collar and kissed him on the mouth to the intense surprise of Wilkes.

Sherlock responded with such enthusiasm that he nearly lifted John off of his feet, and it only struck John as vaguely improper that they were kissing in a public bank several seconds after the fact. Oh well.

“Yes, anyway, you were telling me about the Swiss accounts?” Sherlock cleared his throat as Wilkes gaped at them.

When they got home Sherlock gave him a small smile, but he didn’t say anything.

***

One time it was just because he was going away for a week at a medical conference, and he would miss him. John had just sort of assumed it was okay. But this time Sherlock didn’t readily allow John’s tongue access into his mouth, he didn’t put his large hands on John or sit nicely on his lap, instead pushing his chest away with his hands.

“I’m not what you want,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock—“

“I’m not, what you’re imagining in your head, I’m not it. I’m not. And I won’t be.”

“I—I, Sherlock…” John didn’t know where to begin.

“You have a flight to catch.”

John really wished that he didn’t.

***

When he came back it was almost as if Sherlock had forgotten. But there were some things that even John noticed that told him something was wrong. Sherlock didn’t stand as close to him anymore. Didn’t brush against him as readily around the flat. Didn’t burst into his space and stare into his eyes, didn’t kiss him.

Then there was that cold February night, when Sherlock had run off without him, hidden in a storage facility that was practically a large refrigerator and nearly caught hypothermia waiting for a robber who never came—already being dead from the cold himself. John had felt his skin, ice cold, and pale, paler than it was supposed to be. He was probably numb from head to toe.

It was two days before he properly came to, before his temperature was normalized and visitors were allowed to come in and talk, and after all this time it was slightly annoying to John that all he was technically was a visitor. Not family, not a significant anything, not even Mycroft.

“How could you?” John asked.

“It was remarkably easy,” Sherlock said, “Once I know he was dealing the ice sculptures directly to the Italian mafia I knew that—“

“Not that Sherlock,”

“Oh,” Sherlock sighed, “Right, that.”

“You’re what I want,” John said suddenly, because all that time when he hadn’t known if Sherlock would wake up from his icy sleep he had cursed himself and agonized over the fact that he had known it and never said it.

“John, you don’t have to say this for me,” Sherlock said, and in his eyes there was a sadness that John didn’t want to see there again.

“No, I mean it, you’re what I want...if you would want me that is?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said quietly, “I’ve been here all this time.”

“I’m not going to leave you now,” John didn’t think they’d ever be the type of couple for such spoken sentiments, but he thought he’d say it, at least once.

“The Case of the Maybelline Mascara,” Sherlock answered.

“What?”

“That’s when I first deduced that I was in love with you.”

"It took me five kisses to catch up."


End file.
